A Citizen Of Nowhere

by Seth Lynch

  'I am positive it was Lacman. It's been a while; he may have left. Do you keep a record of ex-employees?'

  'I'll take a look for you.' She opens the dusty ledger once more. 'Ah yes, Marty, G, Sordine A, now du Pont, S.'

  'What does all that mean?'

  'It means he did work here and A. Sordine was his secretary. Then she left and S. du Pont took over. She still works here. Monsieur Marty left just over a year ago though.'

  'Do you think I could see mademoiselle du Pont, she may know where I can get hold of Marty?'

  The doorman coughs.

  'You might want to check with monsieur Lacman, mademoiselle,' he says.

  'Nonsense, Philippe, I'm in charge of this desk.' She sends the doorman a little frown before giving me another smile. 'If you could please give me your card, I'll see if mademoiselle du Pont will receive you.'

  I hand her my personal card and hope she doesn't ask if Reginald is really a Belgian name. She tootles off towards a stairway with her heels echoing around the lobby. I'm about to start reading the ledger when the doorman coughs once more. I turn to face him.

  'So, did you know Gustave Marty?'

  'I did, sir, much better than I know you, I should fancy.'

  'My name is Salazar.'

  I hold out my hand for him to shake. The gesture is ignored.

  'Sorry, old chap, is there some merde on my hand?'

  'No need to take that tone, sir. I don't shake hands with a man unless I know what he's about. Monsieur Marty is entitled to his privacy wherever he may be. I don't see how he'll gain from your finding him.'

  'Very well, old bean. You keep your hands in your pockets and shake your little chap instead.'

  The young lady totters over from the stairs to her desk.

  'Mademoiselle du Pont says she can spare you five minutes, monsieur Salazar.'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I'd expected mademoiselle du Pont to be young and attractive like Céline at Kuo's. Du Pont is getting on and has already worked past her prime. It happens a lot these days, people working past their prime.

  'Monsieur Salazar, how may I help you?'

  She holds out her hand for me to shake. It is a delicate hand and, in order to win her over, I bow and kiss it.

  'I'm trying to locate an old pal of mine from Belgium - Gustave Marty. We lost touch when he moved to Paris. The last I heard of him he was working here and the young lady on reception informs me you were his secretary.'

  'I'm afraid he hasn't worked here for at least a year now.'

  She draws her hand away, with some reluctance I might add.

  'Drat! Did he leave a forwarding address?' I smile a beatific smile, or so I like to think.

  'He did live on rue Léon out by the Parc du Monceau. I know that he has since left there though, as we have had a letter returned to us.'

  'What absolutely rotten luck. I'm only in Paris a week and I can't spend all that time trying to track old Gusty down. How about his previous secretary, do you have her contact details? They may still be in touch.'

  'I doubt that very much, monsieur Salazar. She left because she and monsieur Marty had irreconcilable differences.'

  'Really? Old Gusty always used to get on so well with the ladies. You got on with him well enough?'

  'He was an extremely charming man,' she says.

  'That is exactly how I would describe him - charming and witty. Do you think I could I have her address anyway? It is possible he may have contacted her.'

  'I couldn't give you a lady's address just like that, monsieur Salazar, it would be indecorous.'

  'Oh well, I'm sorry to have troubled you, mademoiselle du Pont.'

  Indecorous! What a joke. These people are making money hand over fist. Every time someone comes here to invest a franc, somebody else goes without food.

  I think I hate myself sometimes.

  Down in the lobby I try my luck with the smiley receptionist.

  'Excuse me, mademoiselle - mademoiselle du Pont couldn't find an address for madame Sordine. Do you have it?' I flash a choir-boy smile as proof my innocent intent.

  'Oh yes, I'm sure we do.'

  My smile is earning its keep today. She pulls out a different ledger from before and scans a few pages.

  'Here we are. It's mademoiselle Sordine, by the way, not madame. Yes, that explains it, she changed her address not long after she left here. That will be why du Pont couldn't locate it. It's on rue Sévin Vincent, right out by Saint Cloud; I'll write it down for you.'

  'Thanks, mademoiselle, you're a real doll.' I wink at her to show what a doll she is.

  I leave the Lacman offices with a light step and a slight smirk. I'd gotten what I wanted and I'd used charm and guile rather than threats and insults to get it. Even the doorman's scowl as I depart brings me a little extra joy. What's more, Paris is sunny and there is no better place than Paris in the sunshine.

  No reason to delay when I'm hot on the trail. I make straight for the Métro which takes me to within a mile of the rue Sévin Vincent. I emerge from the stinking people-sewer and saunter over a bridge into one of the richest areas of Paris. Lampposts are adorned with baskets of flowers. People appear to be going about their business with a certain degree of self-satisfaction, wearing post-coital smiles, no shirts unpressed, no item unlaundered. Spend the day sniffing the inhabitants here and smell violets, lavender, vanilla, lemon balm, eau de cologne. A myriad smells, none of them human. These are the children of God and they are occupied in His good work.

  The sun glints off of an automobile's windscreen. As I'm shielding my eyes somebody jostles past me. They do this even though the pavement is wide enough to sail two galleons side-by-side and I'm the only other person on it. Bastard. I feel like chasing them down and haranguing them. Or tipping one of these flower–baskets over their head. I kick out at a lamppost and continue on my way.

  At first glance the streets are too clean. A closer look reveals the dog turds to the side of the pavement. Little pampered dogs who eat more in a day than half the residents of Paris. A little dog empties its bowels as its over-made-up mistress holds her nose in the air because shit is not something she should ever have to deal with. Once this business is over they will make their way to a Patisserie where the mistress will buy herself a macaroon.

  I feel sick and have to close my eyes momentarily. This case has taken me to some unpleasant places, not all of them physical. I wonder if I oughtn't to chuck it all in. No, I'll finish this one and then I'll spend my time with Megan doing as we please. The nausea is worsening. I head for a little café and steal into a corner. If I don't look at anybody and nobody looks at me I may be able to sit this one out.

  The waiter brings my order of coffee and orange juice. I stare at the wall and a poster for Laurel and Hardy's latest picture. I gaze at it until my eyes lose focus and I'm not looking at anything at all.

  I'm a dilettante, and I hate it. I was a tramp and hated that too. I've hated everything I've ever been and I fear I'll hate everything I'll ever become. The world is corrupted by my touch. If I could find something even halfway decent, I'd take it and make it my life. Perhaps I need a small house with a large garden where I can make like Candide. I could live off the plot, growing potatoes and slowly older. This is all something I should talk over with Megan. Right now I need to regain control. All these mental aberrations serve to distract me from the very simple task I have set myself. I need to leave here, walk to mademoiselle Sordine's apartment, and get a statement from her.

  I finish off my drinks and leave. I walk for five minutes, keeping my head down, before I find myself outside Sordine's apartment block. She lives in a nice old building which radiates seventeenth century finesse. I can picture d'Artagnan whistling up to the rooms above, attracting the attentions of some fair maid.

  There is no reply when I press Sordine's buzzer. I must not start thinking. I keep my head down and walk back to the café. I ask the waiter for writi
ng paper and another orange juice. I write out a note and attach my card to it. Ten minutes later I drop the card through Sordine's mailbox and make it back to the Métro station. There, finished, with no nervous breakdowns required.

  I'm glad mademoiselle Sordine was not in. I wasn't in the right frame of mind to question her. The next time I come here I'll know what to expect and brace myself accordingly. After riding for two or three stops I can no longer stand being cooped up in the Metro. I get off and find myself somewhere in the 15th arrondissement.

  If I follow the river north I'll pass by the Eiffel Tower and reach the source of the boulevard Saint Germain. This will give me a couple of hours of peaceful strolling. The sun breaks through the clouds as I begin my journey; what better omen could a voyager have? This place is semi-industrialised, semi-residential, with the river providing the industry. Beyond the river the rich suburbs cling to Paris's western border like leeches on a swimmer's arse. Here it's like walking the decks of the Marie Celeste - the streets are deserted. There is no mystery; everybody is at lunch. If you ever want to invade France, do it between twelve and two. There'll be nobody around to stop you.

  *

  Not sure where or what. Where or what or why. Only pain and discomfort. Is it my head? I reach to touch it. The pain is in my ribs and it sends shock waves across my body. My hand hurts too; no it's the fingers not the hand. It's the hand and the fingers. My leg, left, right, my right leg. My head is vibrating. I can't keep a hold of anything.

  I'm fearfully cold. My left hand can move; the pain there is not so intense. Is this the same moment? I touch my eye as softly as I can and pull gently at the lashes. Something is binding them closed. I think it might be raining. I pull bloody gunk from the lashes until I have the eye open wide enough to see. I'm looking at nothing. The sky. The night has come and I'm lying down looking up at the sky. There is a little rain - I knew it. I must be looking for shooting stars. Why?

  I'm freezing and hungry too. Are my eyes open? No, they have closed again. The pain in my head is the worst. There is a continual throbbing and a spinning sensation which disorientates me. When I move my body, even a fraction, my chest, my right leg, and my right hand all seethe with pain. The world is pain and cold. I can't hold on to a thought for more than a few seconds. I consider my location, I find I'm thinking about a song I heard a few days ago, then a snippet from a conversation I overheard in a café, then I realise I'm not thinking about now and snap back to considering my location. Where am I? A phrase from Gogol keeps running through my head: 'Spain is under the feathers of every chicken.'

  One eye is open. I'm lying on a pile of coal. With some effort and considerable initiative I lift one of the lumps up for examination. From what I can hear I must be by the river. Water is lapping nearby and I can feel a slight swaying. The night is far too dark to make out much else. I can see metal ridges. This must be a coal barge. By jingo I hurt! I'm so thirsty too. My mouth is dry and cracking. My lips stick when I open my mouth slightly. Night-birds will land on my face and peck at my eyes. They will slowly peck away my chances of survival.

  Mustering all my will, I lift myself up on to one arm. My body screams in protest. I must drink. Having risen slightly, I have a view of the barge. I've grown accustomed to the low light. I scan my immediate surroundings. A small puddle has formed in the coal about a foot away. Through torrents of pain I clamber and roll myself in its direction, then I collapse face first in the water. I turn my head slightly so as not to drown. After a few minutes recuperation I can take a drink.

  This is where I shall die.

  The barge is moored up against a wall. I stare at the wall, passing in and out of consciousness, without any concept of time. I can see metal rungs which form a ladder to safety. Despite seeing the ladder and knowing I have to climb it, I cannot move. My body is insubordinate to my brain's orders. I'm moving! I drag myself over inches of agony towards that first rung. Right leg and right hand are useless. I have a stubborn survival instinct – I just wish I didn't have to make use of it so often. Now my head spins while my body shakes uncontrollably. What I wouldn't give for a jug of water and an opium pipe.

  One day I'll be sitting waiting for someone in an office or perhaps a twice delayed train. I'll suffer from boredom and pace up and down. When I do I must remember this moment and be thankful that I'm not here on this barge. Thinking causes my head to swim. Am I here, or am I waiting for a train? Is this a vivid memory or a dream? Is it even my dream? It is a dream. I wake up. I'm still on the barge. I must make it to that ladder.

  The ladder is too high. Six metres, perhaps more. It may as well stretch to the moon. How can I hope to climb this? I reach up with my left hand as high as I can. The rung is a cold and rough rusted metal. In the centre the metal is smooth. I pull myself up and my left leg scrabbles around for a footing. I begin to stand. The movement of the barge leaves me feeling sick. The river is tranquil. It feels like tidal waves. I vomit over myself. I heave again - nothing comes out. Maintaining its grip on the ladder, my hand steadies me as I sway uneasily.

  I climb onto the first rung. Once on the ladder I lose the swaying motion of the barge. My right hand has no strength in it. I put it behind the rungs to keep my balance as my left hand searches out the next rung up. I'm trembling uncontrollably and have an urge to let go; not only so that this may be over. Tortured and weeping, I force myself to continue. I have slime all over my face. On and on and on. Through repetition I reach the top. Now I must clamber up and over the wall. I throw my body forward so my chest and head are over the embankment while my legs are suspended over the river. I bend a leg up and try to push off from the ladder. I gain too much momentum; it takes me over the wall and off the other side. I fall nearly two metres to the pavement and release a wild scream into the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I open my eyes with difficulty. There is a general bustling noise and, so bright, the lights. I'm in a bed, a hospital perhaps. The pain has diminished, although it still lingers. My right leg is in plaster; I can bend and stretch my left one. I lift both arms up and look at my hands. The left one looks undamaged, while the right is bandaged and some fingers are in splints.

  'Ah, you are awake.'

  The nurse is slightly blurry, I can't seem to pinpoint her face. Her body obscures then reveals the bright lights in the ceiling. By squinting I can make out her features. A large hat wraps around her hair as it cascades down her back. Her dress is pale blue and she wears a large white apron. Emblazoned on the front is a stylised cross giving her the appearance of a crusader from a lesser known order of knights.

  'Don't try to concentrate, it will hurt your head,' she says. 'Relax and get some sleep.'

  'I don't want...'

  'Never mind that now. You have suffered a serious blow to the head. Your leg is fractured. You have some broken fingers and a few cracked ribs. Judging by your scars I'd say you were used to hospitals. How did you get those marks on your back?'

  'What?'

  'Are you a self-flagellator?'

  'No. Where am I?'

  'The Henry Dunant Hospital.'

  'Why aren't I on the ward? This is a room.'

  'Wards are for the hoi-polloi.'

  'How do you know that I'm not hoi-polloi?'

  'You are a lord.'

  'What makes you think that?'

  'The passport in your jacket.'

  'Oh yes. It's an honorary title, I don't use it.'

  'But you are a lord?'

  'My father is.'

  'Try to sleep.'

  *

  I don't know where that nurse is. The pain armistice is over. My head is pounding like a bailiff on a debtor's door. Is this really a hospital? How did I get here? Where is Megan? I got these injuries through the nefarious agency of another. My best chance for an extended life is to get out of here without that other knowing where I have gone.

  I can see a wardrobe on the far side of the room. My clothes mus
t be in there. Wires and weights are holding my right leg in the air. With a bit of straining I double up my body and catch hold of my leg. I fiddle with one of the wires until it comes loose and then flop back down to the bed. I take a breath and then lift myself up again. I pull at the remaining wires until the weights fall from my leg and land with a dull clang on the floor. My leg is free, plastered to the hip but free. I swing my legs out over the bed and sit up. The spinning in my head starts up again; it's disorientating and not something I can get used to. I can't focus or look for too long at the same thing. The windows are shuttered; it must be night time. The walk to the wardrobe is interminable. I'm too weak and I need to eat. My clothes are here, all dirtied and bloodied. I pull my jacket on, over the hospital gown they have dressed me in. Before I can get my trousers on I need to rip off the right leg. Even with two good hands this would be difficult. I scan the room for something I can cut with. There is nothing so I hold them with the rest of my clothes. Now all I need to do is catch a taxicab.

  I open the door a fraction of an inch and peer out. I can see a short corridor. There is nobody about and only a few lights are on. These lights, like the ones in my room, are electric. Further along I can see another door – another room? The corridor turns to the left. I find a large doorway which fronts on to another, longer corridor. The flickering of the lights shows that these are gas. They were keeping me in a section away from the main hospital. I don't believe all that lord business. They wanted me away from the rest so they could murder me.

  This corridor stinks, a mixture of cabbage and sweat. You get this smell in the picture house when certain people sit next to you. Non-smokers, I would guess; the rest of us hide the cabbage smell beneath that of tobacco. Now there is a distinct whiff of vomit and urine. The combination stirs up memories of my stay in a Belgian hospital. I pass a set of double doors with glass in them. Looking through, I can see the back of a ward-sister's head and two rows of beds. The occupants all seem to be sleeping – I wish I could join them. Each step is a torture. Ribs feel as if they are cutting into my lungs. I have to swing my right leg out and round to go forward. When it comes to a halt it is always with a jolt of pain.